


Brave As A Noun

by wilderwestqueen (untakenbeepun)



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst With A Bittersweet Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Disordered Eating, Gen, Hiccup struggles with social anxiety, Hopeful ending?, Mental Health Issues, Modern AU, who else is dealing with their problems through fic??? healthy amirite?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untakenbeepun/pseuds/wilderwestqueen
Summary: Hiccup's struggling. University is difficult, his father is on his back, and he hasn't admitted to anyone just how bad his anxiety is getting. He's slipping right off the edge, and if he's not careful, he's going to fall right off. [Modern AU].





	1. it's sad to know there's no honest way out

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This fic contains descriptions and discussion about mental health, particularly about anxiety and depression. It includes talk of suicide. Please be careful, and consider clicking away if this kind of content is triggering or upsetting to you.

_"And it's sad to know that we're not alone in this,  
And it's sad to know there's no honest way out._

_In this life we lead, we could conquer everything,  
_ _If we could just get the braves to get out of bed in the morning."_

**\- Brave As A Noun, AJJ**

* * *

"Hiccup, I think you're depressed."

"I'm not depressed," Hiccup said.

He was lying on the sofa, face pressed into one of the grooves. It was a bad idea. The whole thing smelt like mildew and felt oddly damp under his touch like it had never quite been cleaned properly. It made him shudder to think of all the things that might have gone on in this sofa – they'd met the previous residents before they'd moved in, and they certainly hadn't been the cleanest people - but he still didn't get up.

"You show all the signs," Fishlegs said.

Philip - or Fishlegs, as he liked to be called - was one of Hiccup's housemates. He was perched on the arm of the sofa, nibbling anxiously on his lower lip and drumming his fingers up and down on his arm. He squinted constantly, desperately in need of glasses - even if he assured everyone that he could see perfectly fine without them - and was covered in eczema.

"What signs?"

"Lack of interest in doing anything. No energy. You never leave the house—"

"—I go to class," Hiccup said, indignantly.

Fishlegs ignored him. "You either eat nothing at all or you eat too much."

Hiccup shunted over to the corner of the sofa and pressed a pillow over his head. "Didn't know you noticed,  _Mum_."

"Maybe you should get some help."

"I'm not depressed," Hiccup repeated. "I've just been going through a bad patch. For twenty-one years."

"That's called depression, dumbass."

Both Hiccup and Fishlegs jumped at the new voice, muffled behind the kitchen door, which was promptly kicked open and slammed against the wall. Cami, housemate number three, was dragging an armchair through the door and lugging it into the kitchen. Though it was small for a chair, it was almost as big as Cami, who was tiny. She was red in the face and puffing out breaths as she pulled it across the carpet, grunting from the exertion.

Neither Hiccup and Fishlegs offered to help, not because they didn't want to, but because they knew it wouldn't end well for them if they did. Being able to do things by herself was a point of pride for Cami, even if it was a heavy object and she didn't have any strength in her skinny arms. They didn't question her either, not until Cami had finished squeezing it into the only available space between the kitchen and the living area, wedged between the kitchen counter and the door. She hopped into the chair with a very pleased sounding sigh, and then stretched her arms in the air and flopped backwards, as if about to take a nap. She closed her eyes, and Hiccup and Fishlegs shot a glance at each other, the two of them sharing a wordless conversation between their eyes.

Fishlegs bit the bullet. "What's that?"

Cami popped one eye open and made a shrugging motion with her hands. "It's an armchair," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I know it's an armchair," Fishlegs said. "Why do you have an armchair?"

"I wanted one," Cami said, opening her other eye and patting the side of the chair in satisfaction. "Hiccup hasn't moved from the sofa in days—" Hiccup made an indignant sound, but he didn't get up— "and I wanted somewhere to sit."

"Where did you get it from?" Fishlegs said, gnawing against his lower lip.

Cami rolled her eyes. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you were implying."

Fishlegs swallowed. "That's hardly comforting."

"It was left outside someone's door on Woodland Terrace, with a sign that said ' _please take_ '," Cami said with a grin.

" _Cami!_ " Fishlegs let out a long, chastising groan.

"What?!" she said, indignantly. "I was doing them a favour by taking it!"

"You dragged an armchair across two streets?"

"Yes."

"What will the neighbours think?" he said.

"They know we're students, they already hate us," Cami said, an amused smile curling at her lips. "And that doesn't even reach the top five of weird things I've done out on our street, do you remember—"

"—Please, for love of God, do not bring up the nudity incident," Fishlegs said, his cheeks flushing bright red.

"It was the middle of the night, nobody saw me."

"I'm sure Rupert from next door saw you," Fishlegs said. "And he was already on the warpath about the birds getting into the rubbish bins."

"Rupert's a dirty liar, that's what he is," Cami said, throwing herself forward in her chair and pointing at Fishlegs. "I'm sure I put those lids on tight. And I can't take anyone named 'Rupert' seriously."

Hiccup snorted, despite himself. "I'm pretty sure he's the one who keeps putting those passive aggressive notes through our letterbox."

Cami grinned, triumphantly. "See, Hiccup agrees with me!"

"Yes, and I'm sure Hiccup's going to be leaping up off the sofa to talk to him when he comes knocking at the door like last time," Fishlegs snapped.

Hiccup frowned, his stomach squeezing.

The last time their easily annoyed next door neighbour had come to the door, Hiccup had been in the corridor, in full view. When he'd started banging on the door, that similar panic that came every time someone knocked on the door had set into his stomach, and he'd been frozen in space before he ducked in the kitchen to get away. When Cami had opened the door, Rupert had marched into the kitchen before she could stop him, and demanded angrily to know why Hiccup had ignored him.

Hiccup hadn't been able to answer, all he could do was gape at the man screaming at him, like a rabbit frozen in headlights.

Fishlegs saw the look on his face. "Wait, I didn't mean that, I'm—"

"It's fine," Hiccup said, his lips pressing together. He pulled himself up off the sofa. "Think I'm gonna go take a nap."

He shuffled off to his room, leaving Fishlegs and Cami to share a concerned glance.

* * *

Safe in the confines of his room, Hiccup let out a long sigh, and dropped into his desk chair, opening up his laptop. It loaded to the front page of his art blog, the messages tab open.

_From Anonymous:_

_Hey! Haven't seen much of you for a while. You going to be drawing anything soon? Love your work!_

_From DeadwoodGate:_

_R u taking requests?_

_From winemutually_

_Chop, chop! More art please! I live for your stuff._

Hiccup scowled, and then closed his laptop. None of them were particularly nasty or unkind messages, but even the compliments were beginning to feel like demands. He didn't know how to explain that he just wasn't that good anymore, that every time he tried to make something it ended up looking like garbage. They didn't need to know that he hadn't picked up a pencil or a paintbrush in weeks.

He lay with his head rested on his arms slumped across the desk for a few moments, blowing a raspberry. Recently, his brain had begun to feel like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, a weird static feeling, where he couldn't settle to anything and nothing was satisfying. His days had become a week full of lazy Sundays, where he couldn't bring himself to do anything in the morning, and before he knew it, it was past midnight and he had achieved nothing. He lost hours and hours to scrolling through Tumblr or Twitter, not taking anything in but needing to feel like he'd done something with the day.

Hiccup sighed and shifted upwards, opening up his desk drawer and scrabbling through it to find a scrunched-up piece of paper that he'd shoved right in the back, opening it out.

_IAPT PHOBIA SCALES_

_Choose a number from the scale below to show how much you would avoid each of the situations or objects listed below. Then write the number in the box opposite the situation._

_1) Social situations due to a fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of myself._

_2) Certain situations because of a fear of having a panic attack or other distressing symptoms (such as loss of bladder control, vomiting or dizziness)._

_3) Certain situations because of a fear of particular objects or activities (such as animals, heights, seeing blood, being in confined spaces, driving or flying)._

Fishlegs hadn't been wrong about his assertion of Hiccup's mental health. It had taken him weeks, but Hiccup had managed to get the braves to go and speak to the university counselling services, and they'd given him these forms to fill in before he went back again. That had all been well and good, but now he had to summon up the bravery to hand the forms back in, and that was only half the battle.

There was a knock on his door. Hiccup quickly shoved the forms back into his desk.

"Come in," he mumbled.

Fishlegs opened the door and hovered in the entryway. "Sorry about earlier, I shouldn't have brought it up," he said.

"It's fine," Hiccup said.

"Are sure you okay? You haven't spoken much all week," Fishlegs said, his brows furrowing together.

Hiccup sighed. "Yeah, sorry, I'm okay," he said, rubbing his fingers in his eyes and then running his hands through his hair. "Bad week, I guess. Next week'll be better."

"I hope so. God knows what Cami will bring home next," Fishlegs said.

Hiccup laughed.

"Movie night later?" Fishlegs said. "It's your turn to pick."

"I'll be there."

Fishlegs smiled and then left, closing the door behind him. Hiccup took out the forms again.

Truth be told, it wasn't just the fear scales he was scared of. There was another question he was afraid of answering honestly.

_Over the last two weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems?_

_\- Thoughts that you would be better off dead or hurting yourself in some way._

There were some things he really, really didn't want to talk about.

* * *

Saturday brought Hiccup a reason to leave the house.

In their last Skype call together, his father had insisted that he pay a visit - "haven't seen you in weeks, son, you're free Saturday, aren't you?" - and Hiccup had found himself without an excuse not to go.

The day began as most days did, with his customary-at-the-door routine.

Wallet? In the left pocket of his jeans. Keys? Right pocket. Phone? Coat pocket. Change for the bus? In his hand.

Hiccup tapped each of them in turn, and then left the house, sliding on his earphones and stepping out onto the pavement.

Wait. Had he done that check properly?

_Wallet. Keys. Phone. Change._

No, he was good. They were all there.

At least it didn't matter if he was late. On university days, it was much worse. Nine o'clock starts were the bane of his existence. Campus was thirty minutes away by bus, and in order to be waiting at the bus stop half an hour before the bus came, ready to be on campus his customary half-an-hour before class, he had to wake up much earlier than he would have liked.

Every morning it was the same. He'd be at the bus stop two buses before the one he would actually need to catch, and every morning, he told himself that he would let himself sleep in just a little longer the next day. It never worked: the same fears would creep into the back of his head.

_the bus will break down and you'll be late_

_traffic will be bad_

_you won't make it in time_

Hiccup had made his peace with it. He'd rather be waiting for half-an-hour than enter the room five minutes late. The door would make too much noise, the lecturer would tut and all eyes in the room would be on him.

The thought made his stomach sick.

At least it wasn't a university day. It didn't matter what time he got home, just as long as he showed up.

He made it to the end of the road, ( _wallet keys phone change_ ), and then crossed to go sit at the bus stop, his leg drumming up and down while he waited.

Leaving the house was such an effort that sometimes he wondered why he ever bothered to leave at all.

* * *

Home didn't really feel like home anymore.

After two years of university, coming home had begun to feel like a chore more than anything else, and although Hiccup relished going back to his childhood bedroom - the only safe place - coming home meant seeing his father.

Hiccup loved his father, he really did, but he wanted more than Hiccup could offer. Adulthood had come like a sharp drop at the end of a cliff, and though Hiccup had tried very, very hard, it never seemed quite enough. He started to dread coming back home, walking on eggshells around questions like -  _have you thought about what you're going to do after university?_

Hiccup didn't have the heart to tell his father that he didn't think there _would_  be a time after university.

He let himself in the house, hanging up his coat on the rack beside the door, and crept into the hallway. "Dad?" he called out, hesitantly.

Something was wrong. Hiccup knew as soon as he saw his father, mouth pressed into a thin line, hands held in front of him, eyes downcast, that he hadn't been called home for a social call.

It took about ten minutes of small talk, making tea and nibbling the end of a biscuit for his father to start talking.

"Son," his father said, "we need to talk."

Hiccup felt his heart speed up. If there was a phrase he wished he could banish from the English language, it was  _we need to talk_. Nothing ever good came out of  _we need to talk._ It was the line that began all the difficult conversations. Conversations that began with  _we need to talk_  and ended with,  _you're not trying hard enough_ , or  _we need to break up,_ or  _your mother is dead._

Hiccup tried to still his already quivering hand - his hands always seemed to shake the moment he began to feel anything more than mild apathy - and pressed his lips together. "What about?" he asked, trying for nonchalant, but no matter how hard he might try, he couldn't stop his voice from wobbling.

His father sighed. "I'm worried about you."

"You don't need to worry about me," Hiccup said, with a weak smile, bringing his cup of tea to his lips. "I worry enough for myself."

His weak attempt at humour did nothing to placate his father, who was still looking at him that concerned expression. "This is serious, kid."

 _This is serious._  Another sentence that deserved to be banished.  _This serious_  came before tellings off, nasty wake-up calls and conversations that never ended well.  _This is serious_ is what his ex had said before she'd dumped him over messenger.

"I'm worried about you," his father repeated. "I'm worried that you're not eating properly, you don't leave the house—"

"—I go to class," Hiccup said, indignantly.

"You  _only_  go to class."

Hiccup puffed out his cheeks, looking away from his father. This conversation was feeling horribly familiar. "Have you been talking to Fishlegs?" he said, accusatory.

"Once or twice."

Hiccup scowled. "I'm having words with him."

"He did the right thing by coming to me," his father said. "I'm the one that should be dealing with this stuff, not him."

"I'm not making him deal with this stuff," Hiccup said, resentment burning in his chest.

"Yes, but he feels like he needs to deal with it, Hiccup."

Hiccup looked away from his father, his lips pursed sourly.

His father sighed. "Look," he said. "I didn't want to have to ask this of you, but I need you to get a job."

Hiccup's eyes snapped up at him. "What?"

"I know you're finding things difficult, but things have been— well, we're fine, we're okay, but I could use some help," his father said. "And what with me paying for you, Cami and Fishlegs to live in that house, money's starting to spread a little thin."

Guilt burned in Hiccup's stomach and clogged in his throat. "Dad, I—" he began, and then stopped. "Are we in trouble?"

"Not at all. I promise you, we're fine, Hiccup, work will pick up like it always does," he said. "It's not just that. I'm worried about how you're going to function after you leave university."

 _I'm not_ , Hiccup thought to himself, but he didn't say it.

"I just need to know you're trying, son," his father said. "I need to know that you're actually trying to beat this thing."

Hiccup stared down at his fingers. He wanted to say no. He wanted to list all of the reasons why he couldn't get a job, why his father just  _didn't understand_ , and maybe, he'd admit how he'd really been feeling, but he couldn't. The guilt was almost too much for him to bear, and there was a voice in the back of his head, ever present and strong:

_You're selfish._

He was. He was really selfish. Here he was, trying to get out of adult responsibility, all because he was a little bit afraid.

 _But_ , another voice told him in his head,  _it's more than just fear._

That was true, too. It was more like paralysis, a horrible nasty terror, that kept him stuck in bed, that made him freeze when strangers talked to him, that made his mind go blank when a teacher asked him a question, that made his palms sweat and his heart pound, that made a simple trip to the shops feel like climbing a mountain, that made going to his seminars feel like facing off a monster. It kept him stuck in the house. It kept him from making friends. How could you make friends when you were so afraid of other people? How could you get a job when even the thought of an interview had your heart racing?

 _Still_ , the first voice in his head said, _that doesn't make you any less selfish._

Hiccup's thoughts were a nasty cycle, and he never seemed to get a reprieve.

How could he explain to his father that he wasn't going to make it outside of university? How could you live a proper life when he could barely make it outside the door most days? There wasn't any hope for him.

But he couldn't express that to his father - not without worrying him terribly - so instead, he pressed his mouth into a thin line, and nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I'll try."


	2. i've got to get out of my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter has many references to suicide and suicidal thoughts as well as disordered eating. If this kind of content is upsetting to you, please consider clicking away.

_"I'm losing my grip here,_

_I'm off the deep end,_

_I wanna come back to me,_

_I wanna come back,_

_I wanna get out of my head."_

**\- Out Of My Head, The Wombats**

* * *

Sometimes Hiccup knew it was going to be a bad day before he even opened his eyes.

The first thing he did when his alarm trilled was fumble over in the dark and switch it off and then switch off all the back-up alarms, setting them for an hour later. Then once those ones went off, he switched them off too.

There were so many things he needed to do today.

He could feel all of them rattling around in his head as he turned over onto his side, pulling the covers over his head. Deadlines were a breath away; there were essays to write, things to do - he didn't have time to waste. He hadn't had time to waste for days, and yet it seemed like every day turned out this way - lost in a haze, his brain filled with cotton wool, his eyes drooping in exhaustion.

_Why was he always so tired?_

Hiccup turned over, pulling himself onto his stomach, shrouding himself in the duvet.

_Get up,_ the voice in his head said.  _Get up. You're lazy as hell. Look at the time._

He looked at the time. 11am.

_You could have done so many things this morning. You have so much to do. You're wasting time. Get up._

But he couldn't get up. He kept trying - kept thinking about how any second now, he was going to swing his legs out of the bed and plant them firmly on the floor. It shouldn't be difficult. He was an able-bodied person - it shouldn't take everything in him to get out of bed and pull on some clothes, and yet doing so felt like climbing a mountain.

_What's the point, anyway?_ It was a slightly different voice in his head this time.  _It's not like you're going to pass any of your classes._

That was true, too. Hiccup had been smart once upon a time - he'd comfortably held the top spot in school, he'd got into university no problem - but it had always felt like a front. Like he'd managed to trick everyone into thinking he was a lot smarter than he was, and it was only now that the disguise was starting to crack.

The moment he handed in his essays - if he ever managed to get them done, he'd spent so long staring at a blank screen, his brain screaming for him to focus - they'd know that Hiccup the Useless was just that - useless.

Part of it was this stupid  _thing_ in his brain that kept him afraid all the time. It kept him mute in seminars, too scared to speak lest he embarrass himself in front of everybody - everybody that had wonderfully smart and insightful things to say. When Hiccup talked, it was like he'd only just learned how to speak that day. So, he didn't talk.

And he didn't ask for help either. He meant to. The lecturers and seminar tutors had impressed upon them every day the importance of taking office hours - "it's in your best interests to come to talk to us," they said, "you won't do well without it," - and he'd intended to, he really had.

It was just that - there was always something else he could do. Always something else he could do besides sitting in a room alone with a stranger, hands shaking, shoulders hunched, as he tried to speak for himself while his brain was just telling him to run.

And then after a few weeks of not doing that, it was too late. He couldn't go to tutorials now, not now he'd built up a block to it. Besides, the lecturers wouldn't want to see him anyway. He could just hear them sneering - "well, Mr. Haddock, if you really cared about your degree, you'd have come to see us sooner."

He did care. He  _did._

_If you cared, you'd get out of this bed right now._

So, he tried. He tried to summon up the energy to pull himself out of bed, but all he managed to do was roll over onto his side.

_God, you're useless. You should just kill yourself._

Hiccup sighed and pulled his pillow over his head.

It was an alarming thing to look down into oneself and find nothing there but a burning, aching hole.

What was more alarming though was how used to it he was. It didn't even scare him much anymore, the way that sometimes he'd lie in bed, turning it over in his head, thinking about how he'd do it.

It'd have to look like an accident, he'd decided. There was something he couldn't bear about the shame of everyone he'd left behind, knowing that he'd done it on purpose. Maybe he'd jump off a cliff, and hope that it'd look like he'd just been walking, standing too close to the edge, and simply just… slipped over. Maybe he wouldn't look before he crossed the street, too engrossed in the music blasting through his earphones to see the bus speeding right at him. His death would be tragic, maybe they'd say a few kind, sad words at his funeral, and then slowly but surely, everyone would move on, and forget that Hiccup Haddock had ever existed.

Then he felt guilty for thinking about it all. He didn't deserve to feel this way. His life hadn't been difficult enough - there were so many things he'd had so easily, and compared to some people, Hiccup's life was a walk in the park. How could he think about ending it? How dare he?

And yet, that guilt didn't make any of those feelings go away. If anything, they made them worse.

_There are so many people who have it worse off than you._

Hiccup screwed his eyes up and let out a low groan into his pillow. " _God_ ," he mumbled to nobody but himself. "Make your mind up."

_Just get out of the fucking bed._

And then, finally, as the clocked ticked over to 12pm, Hiccup pulled himself out of bed.

* * *

Hiccup sat down at his desk, opening his laptop and pulling books out of his bag.

Just because he'd wasted the morning, didn't mean he had to waste the afternoon, too. He was going to work. He was going to make this day worth something, and if he could do that, maybe he'd be worth something too.

_Right,_ he thought to himself.  _Two hours of work, and then I get to sit down and eat._

He always liked to make food a reward. Getting to sit down and eat when you  _know_  you've already got things done.

It didn't matter that it was 12:30pm and there was already an ache and a rumble in Hiccup's stomach. He ignored it. When he had some work done, he'd eat, and it would feel great.

…Except, he didn't get any work done.

No sooner had he sat down at his laptop, was he lost in the world of social media, scrolling through Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook so many times that in the end, he was just scrolling through the same posts he'd seen a hundred times over. It wasn't even satisfying. All he could feel was this horrible sense of guilt, but every time he tried to pull himself back to studying, it was like there was a block in his brain. He'd stare at a blank page and think about how he didn't know what to write, and then he'd stare at his books and think about how none of the words were going in, and then he'd panic, and think about how he was going to fail, how disappointed his father was going to be in him, how stupid he was, how worthless he was-

\- and then he'd go right back to scrolling through Tumblr.

An hour passed. And then another. And then another.

Hiccup's stomach hurt now, begging for food, but he didn't deserve food. He didn't deserve to eat when he hadn't managed to get anything done.

The day crept forwards, and Hiccup's stomach rumbled more and more. He knew he should get up and get food, but something kept him tied to the chair.

_I need to get some work done._

But the page stayed blank, and Hiccup's stomach stayed empty.

* * *

It wasn't so much that Hiccup wanted to die.

At 10pm, when the whine in his stomach was too strong to ignore, Hiccup stumbled downstairs and out into the kitchen.

Fishlegs and Cami were sitting on the sofa. They'd been squabbling about something earlier, Hiccup had heard them as he'd headed downstairs, but when he walked in, they both fell silent, eyes tracking him as he shuffled over towards the kitchen counter.

"Everything okay, Hiccup?" Fishlegs asked.

"Yup."

"It's just — we haven't seen you all day."

"Busy doing work, that's all," Hiccup mumbled, as he rifled his way through one of the cupboards.

Damn it, everything in here would take thirty minutes or more to make. In the end, he grabbed a huge bag of oven chips from the freezer, ripped them open and dumped almost half the bag in a pan. It wasn't healthy, but Hiccup couldn't bring himself to fuss around with saucepans and vegetables. He was too hungry to care.

_God damn it, you can't even look after yourself. Useless._

"You have eaten today, haven't you?" Fishlegs said.

"'Course I have," Hiccup lied, ducking his head as he shoved the pan into the oven.

_I won't do this again tomorrow,_  he told himself forcefully.

But even then, he knew that wasn't true. The same thing had happened yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Wake up in a haze, manage to get nothing done, and then forget to eat. Rinse and repeat.

_Worthless._

Cami was watching him, eyes narrowed. "Your hands are shaking."

"My hands are always shaking," Hiccup said.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Hiccup was dangerously close to snapping.  _Of course, I'm not okay._

"I'm  _fine,"_ he insisted. "Just a bit stressed about deadlines, that's all."

He tumbled towards them, dropping onto the sofa and burying his head into one of the cushions.

There was a long silence. Fishlegs stared down at him, pressed his lips together. "You'd tell us if something was really wrong, wouldn't you, Hiccup?"

Hiccup pulled the cushion back off his face, looking up into Fishlegs' worried eyes.

_I should tell them_ , Hiccup thought to himself.  _I should just tell them how awful I feel and maybe they can help._

And then another thought popped into his head,  _or maybe they won't._

There it was again, that shame that lurked deep inside him, that burned him up alive. He could admit all that he was feeling, but everything in him told him not to. There was burning feeling in his stomach, the fear of being vulnerable.

He wouldn't know how to put all of his messy feelings into words anyway.

"I'm fine," Hiccup said, putting on a smile and rubbing imaginary sleep out his eyes. "Just really tired, that's all."

For a moment, he thought that Fishlegs was going to push him further: he was staring at Hiccup intently, as if he wanted to say something. But then, he just tipped his head back against the sofa and let out a long sigh.

"You and me both," Fishlegs said. "I have so many essays I don't know how I'm ever going to finish them."

"Me too," Cami pitched in. "And I have to do group work with a bunch of people who  _never show up_."

"University's hard," said Fishlegs.

"Yeah," Cami said, a wry smile on her face. "Why can't things worth having just be easy?"

"Sometimes I just want to walk into the ocean and never come back," Hiccup said.

That was about as honest as Hiccup would ever be about his feelings, and he knew they'd think he was joking.

It was like a curse - you can be honest about how you feel, but you have to hide it under humour. Cover it up with as many layers of smokescreen as possible so that nobody ever finds out what really goes on in your head.

"Everything sucks," Cami said, her chin resting on her chest as she chewed on the strings of her hooded sweatshirt.

"Yeah," Hiccup said, in agreement. "Everything sucks."

Hiccup didn't want to die.

There were plenty of things that could keep Hiccup in this world: his friends being one of them. Good food. Books that he couldn't put down. Songs with a strong beat and a catchy tune that made him forget for a second that he'd ever felt sad at all. That one last hopeful feeling he had that things might get better.

But then he remembered all the things he couldn't do, how he could never be a functioning member of society if he couldn't send a fucking email. How was he going to make it out of university if he couldn't get himself to sit and write an essay? Hell, how was he going to survive going out into the world if he couldn't bring himself to speak to his tutor?

How could he live, when he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed?

It wasn't that Hiccup wanted to die.

It was that he didn't feel capable of living.


End file.
